


some gradual changes

by faorism



Category: Naruto
Genre: Domestic, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Light BDSM, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:17:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faorism/pseuds/faorism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of somewhat related drabbles in which Iruka and Kakashi both make room for another person in their respective lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	some gradual changes

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of older drabbles that I've finally decided to revamp and archive here.

_knowing_  


Mission room is busy. (Should have come later. Less people. Less noise. Shorter wait.) Kakashi stands in line, quixotic smile plastered on his face. 

At the desk sits Maro, Dai, Natsu, Chiko, and... someone else? 

Never seen him before: must be new. Kakashi knows all the chuunin working at the desk. Kakashi remembers all their names (although not much else about them, other than rank, specialty, and elemental should they have one); but Kakashi does not know his. What's his name? 

He—a man with pouty lips. Naturally tan skin. Younger than Kakashi by a few years—but not immature; no, not immature: his expression is too pronounced to belong to a foolish boy. But what about the scar across his nose? Any shinobi with such a obvious mar is weak: too weak to protect one's own face. (Kakashi knows he has a similar infliction, but he never said he was not to be included in the weak.) 

He's brunet: exact hue is sienna. Medium-length hair is tied back; wish it wasn't. Kakashi wants to see his hair cascading about those well-set cheeks. Then when he moves, a short trail of brown would streak the air around him. Slick imagery. Slicker cut into a distracted enemy. Loose hair makes for a more interesting aesthetic. But somehow, the ponytail suits him. It pulls, yanks all unnecessary business up and away. He must be organized. 

He reaches out for papers with his left hand, but writes notes in the margins with his right. He has dimples; they spontaneously appear when he talks. He has a broad chin. His voice is soft-spoken yet firm. He does not gesticulate, but he doesn't need to: his eyes are so, so expressive. 

Natsu calls for the next person in line. Kakashi's next. He does not get to meet the brunet. 

—

_shiner_  


Kakashi sits naked on his knees, palms rounded against the arches of his feet. His hair is wild and clasped in an angry grip, his entire body hovers between a burning rawness and a yearning ache, and his cock hangs heavily between his legs. Iruka's free hand draws back and for just a few seconds, Kakashi tenses in expectation of a slap against his cheek, fine tuning his chakra to absorb the blow without detracting from the intent of it. 

It is now—Iruka throwing his weight forward in attack and Kakashi's stomach curling in defense—that it happens: a loud, tumbling crash around the corner from the chuunin housing. 

What follows is a series of _not_ s. Kakashi cannot suppress the instinct that has time and time again kept him alive, especially when his chakra channels are wide open: so, a muted form of killing intent flows out of him. Iruka does not have the time to see that Kakashi is still in control of himself (if only a bit startled); and he reacts immediately to suppress Kakashi because even though they are always aware that they are in a loving relationship, both men cannot forget who they intrinsically are. And yes, Iruka does not _mean_ to throw him down as hard as he had, and he doesn't mean for the blunt force of the fall to be aimed directly at Kakashi's face. Iruka certainly does not mean to push Kakashi so hard down into the floorboards that Kakashi cannot help but keel with unbridled surprise as jolts of pain blossom around his right eye. 

_It's going to bruise_ , is Kakashi's first thought as some of the pressure of Iruka's knee against the small of his back alleviates. _People will see._ And he should be seething—livid—he's going to have to explain yet another mysterious-not-received-during-a-mission bruise. And he'll need to choose between covering the eye or the Sharingan... and fuck, _Gai_. He already had his questions; his concerns; that crushingly serious expression that's become a near constant. ( _'Myah, I can take care of myself.' 'I am not too sure you can, my beloved rival. I just don't know.'_ ) 

Kakashi should really call the session off and heal as much as he can, but here he employs some more _not_ s. He doesn't hiss out their stop, he doesn't reject Iruka's short apology, and he doesn't kick Iruka away as his knees nudges Kakashi's legs apart. He doesn't do a lot of things; instead, he relaxes into the growing blush of broken capillaries around his eye, teeth and tongue grazing against the wood as he breathes. 

—

_breathe: oh glory, oh life_  


So many people: they walk with security and whimsy; they know nothing of the blood spilt to support their oblivious meandering. We attack—we lose ourselves to them... for them... because we want to protect them. An entire system of warriors—of men and women—of people with power and weakness—circle and wait and wait and wait patiently until someone dares to penetrate our sphere of peace. Then we jump—attack—kill. We breathe the scent of gore. We breathe death. 

And as such, we breathe life. Oh, glory. Life. 

Kakashi breathes the scent of sex and love. Kakashi breathes in—takes in within his lungs and self—Iruka's crying out. Of the power of thrusts and kisses and the soon-to-come orgasm. Kakashi bites him—licks him—grips him—laps his cock into his mouth. Kakashi sucks. Kakashi holds Iruka's heavy balls in his palm. Kakashi—Iruka—Kakashi—he, Iruka—him, Kakashi—them. Kakashi wonders how much Iruka can take of this—Kakashi wonders if Iruka relies on Kakashi's touch as much as Kakashi relies on his. They are people—they are soldiers. They are in love. They fuck and make love and kiss. Kakashi loves him and wants him and loves him more than he could have ever imagined, until in their breaths he can only hear love—love—lov— 

—

_something better_  


_I'm just looking for a fuck-buddy_ , Iruka reminds himself before a scream rips from his throat as he sinks down onto Kakashi's cock once again. Iruka may regret being so loud later: his voice will rasp for days on end after tonight—the night Kakashi bedded him. 

_Just a fuck-buddy: someone to blow some steam..._

However much he tells himself that he should, Iruka cannot silence himself. Iruka knows both he and Kakashi are close, and the sensation of _the_ Hatake Kakashi quivering because of _him_ drives Iruka absolutely insane with pleasure.  

_A fuck-buddy: someone who will bring me to a high and leave afterwards without any hesitation..._

"Move, chuunin," Kakashi growls with such innate ferociousness that Iruka shudders and does as he is told. Iruka lifts up off Kakashi once again before slamming down, repeating the process when he receives a groan of approval. Iruka gets a stronger hold on Kakashi's thighs before slowly gyrating his hips as he fucks himself on Kakashi's cock. The tip of the erection breezes against Iruka's prostrate, causing another scream. Kakashi grips onto the sheets at his side in desperation as Iruka moves again, taking the Kakashi balls-deep. Iruka sits there—still except for his harsh breathing and the brief clenching of his muscles around the base of Kakashi's cock—until Kakashi honestly _mewls_ a soft plea for more. 

_A fuck-buddy: someone who will be wondrously fuckable, yet entirely unattached._

Yet, as he moves in just the right way, causing Kakashi to come with a hiss, which then causes him to come with a moan, Iruka acknowledges that he might just have found something else. 

Then a post-coital blush envelops Kakashi's face, and Iruka knows he's found something better. 

—

_given the chance_  


Fate had no control over him. He refused it; he hated it. He simply would not allow some mystical being(s)/forms/ideals dictating where the course of his life led him. 

And yet, so much had changed in just a single year: three hundred sixty-five days: two hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes. A year... which was how long it took to begin to care deeply for each of his young comrades only to have everything shatter beneath him when he failed to keep one of his (who was just a mere _child_ ) safe. There was so much pain... So much disgust and anger and disappointment... So much had happened that he wanted to take comfort in believing that some higher authority had already documented each and every moment of his future. 

But Hatake Kakashi did not believe in fate. 

He could not force himself to let Someone—or perhaps Something—guide him without his say. He would not surrender that which always brought him to a state of utter revelry: he would not surrender his control. 

Yes he had made mistakes and he probably would always feel the agony of losing Sa... of losing him. Always. Even if they managed to bring him back, even after he embraced his almost-apprentice to prove that he was truly _there_ and _alive_ , Kakashi would know that he failed the boy once upon a time... 

Yes. He had made mistakes, but there were so many possibilities for _good_ that Kakashi only trusted himself to see. 

And what led him to this epiphany? 

Well, that came in the form of a compassionate schoolteacher who stopped by one evening to see how Kakashi was holding up. Several conversations later, Kakashi knew. He was addicted to the joyous, eternally present smile on Iruka's lips, and he had the opportunity to have _good_. 

And take that opportunity Kakashi does. 

—

_equilibrium_  


Adjusting the amount of chakra in time with every one of Kakashi's thrusts, Iruka closes his eyes and focuses on the sensation of Kakashi's reckless abandon. It is this abandon that led to their current position: Iruka's legs hooked onto the other's shoulders; Iruka's back against his bedroom window; and Iruka's hands pressing chakra into the glass so it doesn't shatter when Kakashi bucks into him once again.  

Iruka knows that Kakashi allows no one else to see him as wild—as free—as he is now. It's a shame, really, because when Kakashi releases himself from all of his self-imposed restraints, "glorious" describes him like no other word can. No mask. No clothes. No hitate. No facade of indifference. Nothing.

But, no matter how beautiful Kakashi is at the moment, the teacher understands that something must have gone horribly wrong for Kakashi to visit. Hopefully, it's not because another name would have to be carved into the memorial stone... but Iruka can think of nothing else that would bring the elusive jounin to him. 

Iruka allows himself a wanton moan when Kakashi leans down and bites the side of his neck. Iruka enjoys the pain just as much as he enjoys Kakashi throwing him up against a wall (or, in this case, window). But it's the delicate balance within Kakashi that thrills Iruka more than a kiss, or touch, or fuck could ever do (although they are also very nice). Kakashi willingly embodied the wrath—hypocrisy—revulsion that came with living in a town like Konoha while still maintaining a core of hope—pleasure—love. 

And Iruka loves the fact it is that him—and his eternal devotion—that kept Kakashi's resplendent equilibrium as intact as his bedroom's now chakra-infused windowpane. 

  
—

_some gradual changes  
_

His apartment is succinct. Everything has its place without seeming too deliberate; everything is exactly where it needed to be for maximum efficiency. To most, this level of organization makes his apartment appear unbearably vapid and impersonal... two adjectives which had been used to describe Kakashi himself time and time again. This assessment is not completely without reason. Perhaps he is a bit more guarded than his peers, but Kakashi is an infamously talented shinobi and in the process of defending his glorious town of Konoha, he had seen— _done_ —so much. He needs order somewhere, and he found that within his home. 

Despite his quirky dependence on organization, his apartment has seen some changes over the past few months. His home is truly dynamic, growing and shifting along with him. He first noticed this with the tentative addition to his bedside: a framed picture to accompany a decade old one. It pains him to wake up to see both his failed teams, but the fact that he cared enough to feel hurt made him want to push harder—be stronger—and one day bring his beloved student back. 

And then there are the other things... A stray hair band or two tossed haphazardly under his nightstand. Debris of exploding tags and chakra wire. Ramen in the cupboards. Red and black pens hidden throughout the house. Ungraded school assignments strewn across all available tabletops. An extra pillow on his bed. Several sets of the standard shinobi uniform that were not his size. A quick note stuck to his refrigerator reading: "Working late tonight in the mission room. Cook or order in—just make sure to leave me some. Yours." 

Things had changed, but Kakashi, who is now preparing some daikon for tonight's salt-broiled saury (his and Iruka's favorite), knows that he might need a little disorder. 

 

—


End file.
